Human Nature
by Luna Lovegood5
Summary: What if the TARDIS had landed in 21st century London, there had been no Tim Latimer to open the watch before time, and the Doctor had seven months in which to play human? TenxRose. [COMPLETE]
1. Part One: John Smith

**Human Nature – Part One**

A/N: The eighth in a series of thirteen Doctor/Rose centric stories I'm planning to write throughout the duration of series three simply because I miss them so much. This is a rewrite of Human Nature which, I should warn you, completely ignores the plot of the episode, and which is posted in two parts because it's _long. _Part two is all written and will be up tomorrow.

**15****th**** July 2004. A shared bedroom, South-East London, 4.20am. Two hours before the alarm.**

_She's screaming, falling away from him, and there's _nothing _he can do. Yet somehow he understands what all this means – that's she's being pulled to her death, to a fate _worse_ than death…_

_And then she's gone, and he's nothing to touch but a cold wall._

He wakes with a gasp and a start, the thrashing he must have engaged in during his dream evident in the tangled covers and the slight frown on his fiancée's face as she rolls over in her sleep. _In my dreams I keep missing a girl. _He feels his breath catch in his throat. She's here. She's safe.

_You're dead. Officially, back home, you're dead. So many people died that day and you'd gone missing…_

He shakes his head. This is reality. Not that world.

But it had all felt so _real_…

Why is it all so clear, so _vivid_, if it's just a dream?

He can still see her, in his mind, hear her screams echoing around the silent room as she's pulled away from him to something far more terrible than he can understand now he's awake. If he's this "Doctor", and he can help people, why won't he help _her_? Why can't he save her when he knows, knows more certainly than anything, that he feels exactly the same about her in his dreams as he does in real life?

Nonsense, of course, parallel worlds and breaches in universes and robots with human brains. But he can't stop the shiver that runs down his spine, no more than he can bear to take his eyes off her for the rest of night.

--

**19****th**** December, 2003. A street corner, 2am, getting a taxi home.**

She comes hurtling round the corner, rooting in her bag for something, and runs straight into him. The contents of the bag go everywhere, she almost slams into the floor and John's completely winded, but it all passes him by. His breath is completely stolen, but it's not from the impact.

This is like being confronted with part of your subconscious. A dream come to life. He looks around for robots and ghosts, thinking perhaps he's dreaming still, but he doesn't see them. Just her. Even more beautiful than in his dreams, laughing and smiling and apologising profusely as she picks up the scattered contents of her bag. He suddenly realises he's being incredibly rude and bends down to help her, coming face to face with her for the first time when they simultaneously grab for a Henrik's employee card _– Rose Tyler._

He must have seen her around before, because she's been plaguing his dreams all week. It takes everything he has to swallow, meet her eye and try to appear normal.

"Oh!" she says, dropping her grip on the card only for him to hand it back to her. "I'm so sorry, I wasn't looking where I was going, I just – "

John forces himself to speak, and once he's started, he can't stop. "Oh, no, it's entirely my fault. I can be – "

" – sort of walked out and – "

" – really clumsy sometimes, it's – "

They both stop babbling, take a breath and grin at each other. "I'm Rose," she says eventually, holding her hand out. They're still kneeling on the floor, the contents of her bag now well and truly back where they belong.

Obviously taking note of this, he takes her proffered hand, shaking it briefly before hanging on and helping her up.

"Smith," he tells her, all nervous energy and boyish awkwardness. "John Smith."

"Not related to Bond, James Bond, are you?" she grins, tongue between her teeth. The image tugs at something in the back of his mind, but he's pretty positive he's never seen anyone do that before.

That was our first date.

_We had chips!_

John Smith shakes his head. "What? Oh! No, no, not at all. I believe my mother was a distant cousin of his gardener's nextdoor neighbour's sister, though," he adds, serious as anything. "Here, um…I don't suppose you're – you're not going anywhere, are you? It's just I – I'm waiting for a taxi, and I thought maybe we could, um, share it. You know, good for the environment and half the cost and everything." She looks as though she's trying very hard not to laugh. "If you haven't got any other way of getting home, that is. I don't want to presume anything, I just thought, maybe we could – if you're not – that is to say, if you're not waiting for someone, or going – "

"No, I'm not waiting for anyone," she interrupts, shaking her head and smiling. "I'd love to share a cab with you."

"Oh, good. Great. Um. Yes. I'm sorry, you're much better at this than me. Can we start again?"

Rose giggles, and he feels like he's waited all his life to hear that sound. "Go ahead."

"Hello!" he says, looking at her with the slightly wide-eyed shock of someone who's just bumped into a whirlwind of heels and blonde hair, grabbing her hand to shake it vigorously. Her bracelet almost slips off. "I'm John Smith, very nice to meet you."

"Very nice," Rose agrees, trying to keep a straight face. "Rose." It's about all she can manage without dissolving into laughter.

"Well, Rose Tyler – oh, you didn't tell me your surname yet, did you? Sorry, I'm mucking this up again." He coughs, straightens his tie and tries again. "Well, Rose – "

"Hold on a minute, how comesyou know my last name?" She looks a little wary. "I never told you before."

"I…saw it on your employee card," he admits, guiltily. "Sorry." Rose looks relieved. "Right. Where was I? Oh yes. Well, Rose, would you do me the very great honour of allowing me to escort you home – or, at least, as far as my taxi can take both of us without going completely off course?"

Rose just smiles.

--

It turns out that she lives in the complete opposite direction to him, but John – not quite willing to let such an integral part of the dreams he's so far from understanding run away from him just yet – insists that the cab driver goes all the way to her street nonetheless, and, when she gets out, he's adamant that he's going to walk her to the door (all nine floors up, even; the lift was jammed again).

"I shouldn't jump back when you open the door, should I? No boyfriends waiting inside to breathe fire at me?"

"Only my Mum," Rose assures him, choosing not to point out how obvious he's being. "Though I should warn you that she's pretty likely to breathe fire."

John blanches. Rose puts a hand on his arm and laughs. "I'm kidding!" She's turning her key in the lock. "Well, I'll…see you again, some time?"

"Yes, definitely," he says, eagerly, then backs off a step as though he's sudden worried he sounds too keen. She's halfway through the door when he realises something.

"Rose!"

She turns in the doorway, an expectant smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Could I – I mean, do you…do you have a phone?"

Rose pretends she doesn't get the question behind that, adoring his rambling awkwardness, and simply answers, "Yeah, I do."

"Do you think there's any chance I could maybe possibly potentially…have your number? To ring? Some time in the near future? If…you don't mind, that is. I mean, I don't – "

She's already writing it on his hand.

--

"He could've had rabies or anything!"

Inside the flat, Jackie Tyler is utterly indignant, waving her teacup around to make her point and almost sloshing half the contents onto the carpet. She puts it impatiently down on the table and switches the kettle on to make her daughter her own cup.

"Mum, he wasn't foaming at the mouth," Rose says, nicking her mother's tea anyway and wrapping her hands around it to warm them up.

Jackie glares at the smudgy, inky number scrawled across the back of her hand. "Oh, and you'd know, would you?"

"Mum!"

"I'm sorry, sweetheart, but there are all sorts of weird blokes out there who like to prey on young girls like you. Just look at Jimmy!"

Rose's hands still on the mug at the name. "I wasn't being _preyed _on, Mum," she defends, dealing with that before the mention of her ex. "He was very nice. Nothin' like Jimmy. And anyway, that was six months ago. Don't you reckon it's time I got on with my life? You're the one who's always telling me to stop moping about and find someone else."

She can't blame her mother for being concerned, not after what happened with Jimmy, but she's not prepared to drag all that up every time she finds a potential new love interest. Not that she _has _found one before now, or is even certain she's found one in John, but that's not the point. She may only be eighteen, but she can make up her own mind when she needs to. This is South-East London. Kids grow up fast.

"I don't see why you can't get on with your life with _Mickey_," Jackie begins, but Rose interrupts. She knows full well that Jackie only wants her to get back with Mickey because Mickey's _safe_. Mickey is marriage and kids, that job in Henrik's and a flat on the Powell Estate for the rest of her life. Is it so wrong that she's not entirely sure she wants that now? Maybe John's too smart for her; maybe that's what her mother thinks. But at least with him – or with someone _like_ him, she corrects herself mentally; it's far too early to even expect that he'll use that number and call – she won't feel stuck anymore.

They've had this discussion a thousand times. "_Don't_ start that again!"

The older blonde sits down at the table with the new cup of tea and frowns. "Why not? What's wrong with Mickey? Mickey's nice."

"I know he is, Mum. Mickey's lovely. It's just…he's my _ex_. I haven't been with him for like, a year and a half. That'd just be _weird_. Besides," she says, bracingly, "he deserves better than me. He deserves someone who isn't gonna run off with another bloke at the drop of a hat."

"He doesn't think so. That boy worships the ground you walk on, Rose. You could do worse! You _have _done worse."

"I'm so not having this conversation with you again," Rose says resolutely, shaking her head and getting up from the table to pour her mug of tea down the sink.

"Oi, it was good tea, that," Jackie scolds half-heartedly, taking a sip of her own as her daughter crosses the room.

"I'm going to bed. I'll see you in the morning," she insists, a mix between exasperation and forced patience. Her door closes lightly behind her.

"On your own head be it!" Jackie calls after her, nodding significantly at the closed door.

--

Rose is wary, her mother's warnings ringing in her ears despite everything, but John's exactly what she needs. He kisses her under the stars, walking her home after their first proper "date", and he can _almost_ forget that he's certain he's met her somewhere before, kissed her somewhere other than his dreams. She blushes for at least the next ten steps and then takes the initiative herself, pulling him down by his tie to kiss him goodnight on her doorstep. Within a week they're inseparable.

It's whirlwind, utterly whirlwind, so much so that John's contemplating writing to the dictionary and updating their definition. It should really say something about being swept off your feet within seven days.

He still can't shake the feeling that he's done all this before.

--

**15****th**** July 2004. Kings College, London, 1.32pm, nearly seven months later.**

Work's a nightmare. He barely got any sleep after that dream – one that was hardly conducive to rest in itself – and he can feel his eyes drooping along with his students'. He cuts his lecture – on the thrilling subject of quantum consciousness – ridiculously short (in fact, it was only five minutes _long_) and promptly falls asleep over his paperwork even as the students are still filing out of the hall.

_Do you trust me, Martha?_

_Of course I do!_

_Good, because it all depends on you. This watch – _

A small hand on his shoulder wakes him up.

"Hello, sleepyhead," a happy, gentle voice to match the hand says, and John Smith jolts his head up suddenly, glasses falling from their position on his head back to his nose and slipping down a little.

It all depends on you. 

"Whassat? Wha'd I miss?"

Rose grins and straightens his glasses, pulling up a chair next to his – quite pointlessly, he thinks, considering she ends up far more on his than in her own – unable to stop herself from giggling at the sight of his hair.

John frowns blearily at her. "What? Have I got something on my face?"

He has, actually. A post-it note has managed to attach itself to his cheek, and there's an ink-stain on his forehead, but she refrains from pointing this out. "Your hair," she says, and he frowns, a mixture between confusion and hurt. "It's…_big_," she clarifies, removing the post-it note from his face and patting down on the desk with a smirk.

"I had notes on the origin of the universe written across my face by way of sticky yellow paper and you're worried about my hair?"

Rose shrugs. "No bad dreams this time?"

John hesitates.

_Did they see you?_

_I don't know!_

_Martha, tell me! Did they see your face?!_

_I don't know; I was too busy running!_

_Martha!_

_No. I don't think so. They can't have. No!_

It wasn't a bad dream, as such. Not like earlier (although he has to admit he's had nicer ones). He just…didn't understand it. And what's that biology lecturer who teaches across the hall doing in his _dreams_?

He'd probably better not mention that part to Rose.

"No, none," he answers, eventually. "Not unless you're planning on falling through a hole in the universe any time soon, anyway."

She smiles. "Definitely not. And I promise to stay away from giant flying pepper pots." Then she sighs, twisting their joined hands this way and that, watching the way her ring catches the light. "If you have to go on all these adventures, I wish you could go on nice ones."

John suddenly feels defensive, and he's not entirely sure why. "Sometimes they're nice."

"Yeah?" She's stopped moving their hands, is looking at him with interest.

"Yes," he says, firmly, wondering how to explain the wonder of feeling so…_free_ to her. The ability to go anywhere, do anything, _be_ anyone. "Once we went to see Elvis."

Well, that's as good an explanation as any.

She laughs. "All of time and space and you went to an Elvis concert!"

"Why?" he asks, slightly indignantly. "What would you go and see that's so much better and so much more cultured? And don't say the Bronte sisters, 'cause I told you last week that they're boring as anything." He ponders this for a second. "Must be all that living on moors."

"ABBA," Rose admits, guiltily, and he can't help but grin.

"Good choice. I was worried you were going to say the BeeGees."

Rose laughs, the book open in front of her utterly human fiancé catching her attention. _A Journal of Impossible Things. _She's seen this before, but some of the ink-sketches are new.

"Who've you been drawing, then?" she asks curiously, pulling the pictures towards her.

"I don't know," he says honestly, eyeing the multitude of faces with his chin on her shoulder. "They just sort of…appear. In my dreams."

I dream I'm this…adventurer. A daredevil. A madman.

"There's a lot of women here," she teases, and he knows it's true. She can't mind, though, not when the book is full of so many drawings of herself. John just hopes that she never ends up turning to the last page, never sees herself as he did earlier that morning, ripped away from him, screaming, and sent to her death. "Why's this one got a question mark by her?"

He shrugs, shaking off the image. "Sometimes that's her, and at other times she looks completely different, but it's still _her_, you know? When you can just _tell _it's the same person inside?"

"Like when you can't see someone's face in a dream but you know who they are anyway?"

"Yes, sort of. I suppose that must be what it is."

--

**15****th**** July 2004. Kings College, London, 2.47pm, fighting off the green-eyed monster.**

Sometimes, Martha Jones really wishes her parents had taught her to knock.

Rose pulls away from the Doctor and beams even through her blush. "Hello. You're Martha, right?" The colleague of John's is around a lot. A _lot_.

Martha nods, trying not to wince when the young blonde rests her head on the thoroughly-human Doctor's shoulder and he smiles down at her. It hurts, the way they just _fit_. She imagines they were much like this anyway, Time Lord or not. "Hi."

And last night, I dreamt you were there, as my…companion.

Rose looks from one to the other as though realising something for the first time. "Sorry! Am I keeping you from super serious teacher business or something? Because, if you wanna borrow him, he's all yours. I shouldn't be here anyway. My lunch hour ended – " she looks at her watch " – um. An hour ago."

"No, that's OK," Martha manages, surprising even herself. "I just wanted to drop off this list of students." She waves it at them. "Some of my Biology lot want to take your cosmology modules," she clarifies, addressing John. "Sir."

"Oh! Right, well, I'm sure that could be arranged." He looks expectantly at the paper, but Martha seems unwilling to come any closer. Rose, sensing the awkwardness and knowing her wages for the day are dropping by the minute, coughs a little and gets up.

"Um. I'll…leave you two to it. I'm sure you've got…important stuff to talk about. Better get back to work while I've still got a job to go to. Bye," she says, running a hand across John's shoulder as she walks past him on her way out. He takes hold of her arm, stopping her in her tracks. "Hm?"

"Not saying goodbye like that, are you?" he grins, and her frown disappears. He gestures with his free arm. "Come here."

Martha looks away, but she can't deny that he's kissing her. A lot.

"I really – " kiss " – have to – " kiss " – go." Rose grins and disentangles herself from him. "I'll see you later." She reaches the door this time. "Bye, Martha!"

"Yeah. Bye."

--

**16****th**** July, 2004. The TARDIS, wishing for an old friend.**

_You had to, didn't you? You went and fell in love with a human. And it wasn't me._

This wasn't in the rules. There was nothing about Rose in that video of instructions. Nothing about falling in love. _You didn't say anything about women! _What is she supposed to do _now_? They'd planned to leave on the 29th of July, by which time the hunters would be dead – two days before John Smith is now supposed to be _marrying _Rose Tyler. What's going to happen then? Even if the danger passes and she can open the watch, there's no guarantee that she'll get him back.

Rule Four: You. Don't let me abandon you.

Oh, yeah, because that helps.

And what about all that crossing into established timelines and creating paradoxes and universal implosion stuff he's always talking about? What happens if, in a few months' time, she hasn't managed to pull him away, even if he _is _a Time Lord again, and a younger version of himself comes along to collect Rose? The universe isn't exactly being kind, right now, but she's pretty sure she doesn't want to see it ripping apart.

She can't let him marry Rose. She knows that much for certain.

Don't open the watch, she thinks, running her fingers over the catch.

But what if there's nothing else left to do? The hunters are closing in, Martha's well aware of _that_. A whole new bout of OfSTED inspectors who never existed before suddenly descended on the university and performed "checks" on all new staff. They've only got a couple of weeks to go, and luckily no-one seemed to suspect anything, but if they're not careful, _very _careful… Can the hunters read minds? "John" (she still can't get used to that) might be all-human, but _she_'s still a time traveller. She remembers it all.

Oh, and…thank you.

--

**19****th**** July, 2004. 1.11am. John Smith's bedroom, time ticking away.**

"I love you," she tells him, and he feels his breath catch in his throat in a way that has nothing to do with the fact that she's lying on top of him. Why does hearing that from her always affect him in such a way? He should be used to it by now. Why does it still feel like the first time? She obviously notices. "How long has it been since anyone told you that? I mean…before me."

"I don't remember." He honestly doesn't. Rose, for some absurd reason, smiles, propping herself up with her arms across his chest.

"I love you," she repeats, the lightest teasing tone to her voice as she watches John's reaction. He squirms. In a good way. "I love you," she says again, kissing his nose. "I love you, I love you, I love you," she laughs delightedly against his ear, his forehead, his eyelids. He opens his eyes and she sobers, whispering it one more time. _I love you_. How can it sound so much more potent like that? Why does a quieter tone change the meaning so?

And then she kisses him, and he's lost. _Quite right too._

--

**21****st**** July, 2004. A coffee shop, 12.17pm, questioning.**

"She's so _young,_" Martha says, one lunch break over coffee. Funny how the small things can give you hope, even when you know the inevitable's coming and, human or not, the Doctor is months away from meeting Rose Tyler for the first and second time and falling madly in love with her all over again.

He – _John_ – is looking at her over his cup, inviting her to go on.

"I mean…it's just…doesn't her mum mind that you're more than twice her age?"

"Wouldn't know. Haven't met her," John tells her casually, sipping his coffee and wincing as it burns his tongue. "Should really have let this cool first…"

Martha stares. "You're marrying her and you haven't met her mother?!"

"I've a bit of a…fear of mothers," he admits, tugging on his ear. Some things never change. "Got a feeling I've been slapped by a few in the past."

Martha stifles a laugh. "Yeah. I can imagine."

--

**23****rd**** July, 2004. The shower, 9.19pm, embarrassing Rose.**

John's never been the kind to knock. He bursts into the bathroom in a whirlwind of soap suds and chewed-up bits of copper pipe – the result of trying to fix the washing machine himself – the door banging off the wall and slamming shut behind him. Rose squeaks and attempts to hide behind the shower curtain (rather pointlessly, he thinks; it's not as though he hasn't seen it all before), instead managing to half-wrap herself up in it and pull it straight off the rail as both she and curtain fall to bottom of the bath.

_And she is dressed in the most immodest way._

John grins, completely forgetting whatever urgency caused him to come in here in the first place. "You don't blush nearly often enough," he tells her, helping her up, and the pink in her cheeks deepens by about three shades.

Now Rose knows why she prefers bathing.

Still, she's not complaining when he agrees that his utter lack of nakedness compared to her is really rather unfair and jumps in there with her.

Wouldn't be room for _that _in a bath.

_--_

**The TARDIS, timeless.**

Finally, _finally_, the long seven months have come to an end and it's time to sort out this whole mess, to bring the Doctor back and get on with their lives, leaving Rose to get on with hers – how it _should _have been.

Martha hesitates for a minute, her fingers tapping over the silver casing and tracing the intricate symbols there. _Don't open the watch_, he said, and there's no way she can be absolutely certain that the hunters are dead, even though the time he gave has passed_, more_ than passed (he added on an extra month just to be sure, he said, and there certainly haven't been any shifty inspectors hanging around for a while), but she's as certain as she'll ever be.

Rose, though. How's she going to feel when her fiancé just disappears into the night?

Martha sighs, knowing she has to do this no matter what. There's no other choice. She's going to stick to the plan even if John Smith didn't. It's the right thing to do, she tells herself, as she twists open the catch. No matter how many people get hurt, this is what she was always supposed to do. This is what will make everything turn out alright again.

The longer she leaves it, the worse it'll get.

_Don't open the watch._

Her fingers shake as she prises open the lid…

And then that's it.

It's open.

--

**29****th**** July, 2004. John Smith's bedroom, 2.34am, waking from a dream.**

At first it's just a quiet murmur, something he can easily convince himself is a remnant of his dream, whispers of another time, another life. But it grows in intensity with each second that ticks by on his bedside clock, and soon there's a multitude of words screaming at him in a thousand different voices and he's thrashing around, trying to bat them away, push them out, but it's no use because they're _inside his mind_. He swears he's screaming, but his ears are too full of shouts to hear.

The words are going so fast that he can barely make them out, and he's sure that his brain's going to explode. This must be what it's like to go mad, completely and utterly _mad_.

A doctor, _the _Doctor – _him – _and a hundred words in a language he can't understand, elaborate clockwork symbols exploding into and interlocking through his mind. Time Lord, TARDIS, Gallifrey, Void, it means _nothing _but somehow suddenly it all seems to make sense, just like it did in his dreams. Time travel, time vortex, time rotor, time, time, time, did I mention it also travels in time? Rose – _Rose? _– and Susan and Romana and Adric and Ace and…

He remembers.

Oh, God, he remembers.


	2. Part Two: The Doctor

**Human Nature – Part Two**

**29****th**** July 2004. The TARDIS, 3.12am Earth time, lost.**

It's a good job Martha's a light sleeper.

They sit in the console room, a soft green glow from the time rotor illuminating the TARDIS. The Doctor runs his hands agitatedly over his face before jumping up and pacing, Martha trying not to notice the fact that he's in pyjama trousers and an unevenly-buttoned dress shirt, his coat thrown over one of the many pillars. He'd obviously left in a hurry.

"What am I going to tell her?!"

"The truth?" Martha suggests, wishing she hadn't when he turns to glare at her. She reminds herself that he's just worried; it's nothing to do with her. She's got him back. That's all that matters. Now they just have to figure out what to do next.

"Oh, yeah, 'cause that'd go down _great_, that would," he says, throwing his arms all over the place. "Oh, by the way, Rose, I know I proposed to you, but I'm going to have to withdraw that offer indefinitely because, uh, I'm actually a nine hundred year old alien who should be locked up for paedophilia by his own planet's standards right now, let alone your mother's, and because if I stay any longer I'm going to royally stuff up your established time line."

Martha tries very hard not to snort.

"Sorry I didn't tell you before. I sort of accidentally-on-purpose misplaced my memories when an alien race came after my lifespan (got thirteen of those, by the way). So yes. Now I have to leave, and then you can travel with a me who isn't me at all but really rather Northern and leathery, so that you can be separated from me in just over two years' time and everything will be hunky dory again, and we can go back to being bloody miserable on separate sides of the universe. Bye, then! Hope you kept the receipt for that dress!"

"…Point taken." There's really nothing Martha can say to that. She sighs. "I knew you should've been an astronaut. Astronauts don't have time for wives."

"Oh, but astronauts are so much sexier than teachers." Martha raises an eyebrow. "What?! They are! I'd've been fighting off women left right and centre. Men too, probably. Not to mention – but that's really not the point. _What_ are we going to do? I hope you've got an idea locked away in that medical brain of yours, Martha Jones, because I? I am completely stumped. Bamboozled. …Oh, and I can't even think of any more synonyms for not knowing the answer." He flops onto the console chair, utterly defeated. He can't even begin to consider what this might mean for him, losing Rose all over again, not when he has less than forty-eight hours to come up with an excuse to leave that won't break her heart.

He's considered dying, but a staged death would be so _elaborate_, and it's really not fair on any of them.

"There must be _something _you can do," Martha insists. "I don't know. Change her memories, or – "

A look of realisation dawns across the Doctor's face. "Of _course_! Brilliant! And so simple! Oh, Martha Jones, what would I do without you?"

Martha is silent, but her answer couldn't be more clear: _marry Rose, apparently._

--

There's no choice, really. Martha's suggestion is the only option open to him. There's nothing else he _can_ do. For the first time in his life, he's completely and utterly powerless entirely through his own actions, and he _really _doesn't like it. Rose doesn't know about his life, and he doesn't want to share half of himself with her, doesn't want to spend the rest of his time living out a lie. Quite apart from that, the need for him to sort things out and disappear very, very soon is becoming more urgent by the second.

John Smith might have been all-human, but the Doctor doesn't age. Even if he managed to persuade his previous self not to take Rose along – and how could he deprive her of those years, let alone risk the consequences of such an action? – someone would notice, eventually, that Rose Smith's much-older husband looks somehow much-younger than her. This can _never_ work.

Part of him wants desperately to steal her away with him, spend an eternity with her, showing her the stars and living out the life they should have had, but the bigger, more sensible part of his brain knows that wouldn't be right. He'd keep her too long. He wouldn't return her in time for his previous self to find her. He'd get her killed, give her knowledge of times she shouldn't have, change the course of her life with him beyond measure.

For every selfish solution he comes up with, every chance he has to convince himself that it would be right to stay, there are always a thousand disastrous eventualities just waiting to beat the idea down.

--

**29th July 2004. John Smith's Bedroom, 4.02am, disbelieving.**

As he sneaks back to bed in order to wake up with her _as normal _at 6.20am the next morning, he's never felt so guilty. Now he knows what he has to do, it's even more difficult, somehow.

Lying there in the dark and listening to her breathe, he finds that he can't look at her. He has to turn on his side and face away from her to stop his eyes flicking back to her face, has to keep telling himself that he hasn't got her back. This is_ not_ Rose. This isn't the woman he travelled with, the woman who said _I love you_ in Bad Wolf Bay, the woman he lost. He won't let her be. If he even begins to think like that then he knows it's going to be impossible for him to ever leave.

And so he shuts her out and stares fiercely, unblinkingly, at the clock, trying to pretend that he doesn't notice every slight shift of the mattress, every rustle of the covers, forcing himself to believe that the long, even breaths he can feel at his neck aren't burning his skin.

It's no use. Within ten minutes he's practically leapt out of the bed, frustrated hands pulling at his hair as he paces the room. It's driving him insane, being this close to her again and all the time having to pretend that it's _normal_, that he hasn't been, effectively, mourning her for almost a year now. He grabs a pen off the bedside table, passes it agitatedly between his hands in an attempt at distraction, as a form of restraint, giving himself something to do that doesn't involve touching Rose, gathering her up and losing himself in her until he forgets his own name in order prove to himself that she's real. He can't even comprehend that much right now, let alone the thought that he's going to have to give her up after finally finding her again.

She mumbles in her sleep, and the pen snaps.

Perhaps if she'd been someone else, things would be different. In losing John Smith he would lose all his feelings towards her, except perhaps some residual fondness, but…as it is, he's fallen for her harder than he's ever fallen for anyone else, both as human and as Time Lord. He tries not to dwell too much on the implications of being so bound to one person no matter what he does, more than a little scared by the thought.

Throwing the broken pen to the side, the Doctor drops to his knees at the foot of the bed, resting his arms on the mattress and staring desperately at her through the gloom. How many times had he wished for this? How many times has he asked for a normal life, a way back to Rose, a chance at forever with her?

Irony is a cruel friend.

The knowledge that his previous self will be along in little under a year isn't exactly consolation. She may have all of it to come, but for him, that time has passed, and he's got to lose her all over again.

--

**29****th**** July 2004, 7.53pm. John Smith's flat, living a lie.**

The night before the night before, and everything has changed. After having spent the bare minimum amount of time with Rose all day – a quick goodbye in the morning and a made-up meeting at lunch, not to mention discussions with Martha in the TARDIS straight after work proving sufficient for avoidance – it's time to face the music.

Oh, he hates that metaphor.

The Doctor turns the key in the door to "his" flat, shuts it wearily behind him. He's hardly taken two steps when a mass of blonde hair bounds into view. Rose.

Her arms are around his waist before he has time to protest. He tries to return the embrace the way _John_ would, but it's impossible with their history. How had he ever let it get to this?

She's pulled away before he can remember how right it feels to be that close to her. It's a long moment before he realises she's been talking all this time.

" – and mum reckons we can…are you alright? You look a bit…different."

_Good different or bad different?_

He takes a breath and reminds himself that she can't possibly know. She's not that girl yet.

"And your hands are so cold!" she exclaims, taking them both between her own. The Doctor closes his eyes. "Come on, come in properly, I'll make us some tea or something; you must be freezin'."

So this is what life would have been like, with her.

He looks around the flat with renewed interest, even though he knows it all by heart through John Smith's eyes. Pictures everywhere. A kettle. Bills and letters on the table. She's running the tap, pulling teabags out of little cylindrical pots, her hair a harsher shade of blonde than he's used to due to the bright, unnatural kitchen strip-light, and none of it's right. He remembers her bathed in green, even gold, but never this clinical white, sees her covered from head to toe in slime and still beautiful, not this clean and young and so untouched by adventure and excitement. He's got her back but he hasn't, can't even share that joy with her because, for Rose, this is where she's always been, and in reality she is still trapped, unattainable, insurmountable miles away without even as much as a human version of himself to make tea for. She sings absent-mindedly as the kettle boils. He wishes he knew if her later counterpart were this happy.

And all of a sudden she's not standing there, calm and sleepy, making a simple cup of tea, but screaming and dying, being pulled through the air to her inevitable fate, only saved from an ending worse than death by the lucky timing of a father she hasn't met yet, is convinced she will never meet. She's not saying a cheerful "see you later" at the door, but a tearful "I love you" in a parallel world.

_She will not answer me, and she keeps walking away._

He coughs, blinks, runs a hand over his face. When he looks up, she's still there, alive and present as ever.

It's still too much for him to take.

--

Rose gives him half an hour, just long enough for the tea to go cold. John gets like this sometimes. Says strange things, reverts into his own thoughts, daydreams. Disappears in the middle of a conversation, changes his morals and philosophies as though there's someone else in there, fighting to get through.

The clock strikes eight-thirty. She grabs his coat and heads for the roof.

--

"Thought I'd find you up here."

He doesn't turn around. Despite all the extra time he's had, he doesn't think he'd ever have asked for this.

"Go on, then," Rose prompts, set on making him talk one way or another. "Which stars are you looking at?"

He doesn't answer for a very, very long time. Then, he pulls her to his side, dropping the hand on her arm as quickly as if she'd burnt him to point up into the sky. "That one," he says, wincing. "The Andromeda galaxy. Also known as Messier 31, M31, or even NGC 224, if you're very, _very_ boring. Made up of over one trillion stars, seven times the diameter of your moon in width and created long before anyone on this Earth was even rocks and dust in the air."

"Didn't know I was marrying a Patrick Moore wannabe," Rose teases, obviously impressed and wondering why he hasn't tried to woo her with the stars before now.

_Well, I'm very good, _almost comes the standard response, but he reminds himself that he's not supposed to be the Doctor anymore. "Well. I _am_ a Physics teacher. One would hope that I'd have some knowledge of the night sky."

He can almost pretend that nothing's changed, that he's on the roof of Jackie's building with her, pointing out the stars as he once did. Even though he can't offer them to her this time, he can't help but put his ever-so-slightly shaking arms around her, pull her back into him. This is how things always were, he tells himself as she rests her head back on his shoulder, so it can't be wrong. It's alright as long as he doesn't think about that ring on her finger, or the shared flat below them, or the necessity of his impending departure. Somehow, it's been far too long since they stood like this together, no matter what he's been doing as John Smith in the meantime.

It's not fair that he had all that indefinite time with her and didn't appreciate it, didn't have the chance to really _live_ it.

"Wish I could visit them," Rose says, a little wistfully, obviously thinking of his dreams as she looks up at the stars. "See them properly."

"Maybe you will," the Doctor replies, quite unable to manage any more than those three words following that declaration.

She laughs, and he feels it reverberate through his stomach. "Yeah, if I can find someone with three million pounds to fly me to the moon." There's a slight pause. "D'you reckon there's anything else out there?"

He knows what she's going to say, but he asks anyway. "Like what?"

Rose tilts her head to the side, scanning a different area of the sky, and he notices for the first time that she's wearing his coat. "Aliens and things?"

The Doctor suppresses a smirk, feigns ignorance. "What, like in _Signs_?" It takes every ounce of willpower he possesses to stop himself from launching into a rant about how they got everything so very, very wrong. Allergic to water, of all things! Why, if they'd – but Rose is talking.

"Well, kinda. Less scary, though, I hope. And I don't really think they're green or anything."

There's a pause in which he tries not to laugh. Then: "Yes," the Doctor says, finally answering her question with all the certainty in the world. "Yes, I do. …Do you?" He's not sure why her answer to this is so important to him.

"Never really thought about it 'til now. I hope so."

"Why?"

"Sort of lonely otherwise. Don't you reckon? Just this massive universe and we're the only ones in it."

He'd never thought of it like that before. "Yes. I suppose it is."

Rose turns her head and raises herself on tiptoes to kiss him. He lets her, too guilt-ridden to do much else, but he can't bring himself to respond. He just hopes that the awkward angle disguises his reluctance. This isn't right. He'd almost forgotten, got himself caught up in the _right here, right now_, but he shouldn't even be here. He should have left the moment the watch opened, should have made sure the TARDIS wouldn't come here, should…

Oh, there are a thousand ways it could have turned out differently, a thousand ways he's messed things up.

Part of him says that while he is here he should just enjoy it, but how is that possible when he knows he has to leave her? He can barely even process her kissing him so naturally, conscious and in control of her own mind, no less, let alone the fact that he has to break off an _engagement _with her. It's another promise of forever that neither of them will be able to keep.

"I'm going to bed." She tugs on his hand expectantly. "You coming?"

He hopes his shock at hearing those words come from Rose doesn't register on his face. He gives a slight, awkward cough and can't meet her eye. "No," he manages, eventually. "I'll…stay out here for a bit. I've got some thinking to do."

Rose is turning to go when he suddenly tightens his grip on her hand, prompting her to look back at him. "Rose, before you go – I just…I should tell you – " Oh, how is he ever going to phrase this? She's looking at him expectantly, waiting for him to go, but how can he? How can he admit that he's not the man she fell in love with, that he has to leave her before tomorrow is over? He can't do that her. If he's honest, he can't do it to _himself_. Perhaps it's selfish, backing out, making sure he won't have to deal with the fallout of the mess he's made, but it what he always does. It's how he's always worked. "You know what? Don't worry about it," he says, finally. "It doesn't matter."

She drops his hand, doesn't complain. He's always been a bit mysterious, a little bit brooding – that's why she fell for him in the first place – but she wishes he'd tell her what's bothering him. He's been acting oddly ever since he came in.

"Okay…see you in a bit?" It's the most uncertain he's heard her since he came here.

The Doctor gives a tight nod, watches her out of the corner of his eye as she heads back downstairs, apparently satisfied. As soon as she's out of sight, he lets out a breath he feels he's been holding ever since the watch was opened and leans against the railing bordering the roof in defeat. Oh, Rassilon. What has he done?

--

**30****th**** July, 2004. John Smith's bedroom, 12.03am, fighting a losing battle.**

She's asleep when he finally goes inside.

The Doctor's not letting himself think about this. He can't. All he knows is that he can't just leave her without so much as an explanation. He has to leave a note, or a…

Yes. Because a _note_ would make everything alright. He can stay with her until their wedding day, run off hours before and then _leave a note._

Sometimes he really hates himself.

But what else can he do, other than keep up the pretence until he forms a better plan, an excuse to leave? He can't just up and go. He can't do that to her, no matter how much of him is screaming that it's the kindest thing for both of them.

He knows, though, that if she were anyone else, he wouldn't still be here.

"John?"

He thought he'd been quiet, getting in next to her, but obviously not quiet enough. He hesitates before accepting the name. "Yeah. Go back to sleep."

She smiles and shuffles closer to him, wrapping an arm around his waist and tangling her legs with his. He freezes, wishing she'd turn back and face the other way. He can't look her in the eye. Luckily, she's asleep before long – he envies that – and he can play the observer without being observed.

_Rose. _Oh, God, Rose. Right in here in front of him, in a _bed _with him (he didn't see that one coming), Rose who _fell through the Void_, so close that he could reach out and –

No. He stops himself, hand millimetres from her face, feeling as though the whole, fragile world could shatter and explode if he moves too quickly, breathes too loudly, allows himself to fall for her all over again. This is wrong. He's messed everything up. She's still going to fall through that Void. He hasn't got her back, no matter how much he likes to think so. This isn't Rose, and it isn't _the Doctor _she's fallen in love with.

Losing his identity as John Smith hasn't returned his emotional remoteness, as he perhaps might have hoped. He supposes it's silly, really, to expect to become distant to Rose simply due to remembering their separation when he has her right here with him, asleep and draped all over him in a way she would never have dared to before.

And Martha! There must have been moments where the poor woman's wanted to brain him for being so stupid.

But she's here, _Rose _is here, and that ring on her finger…

The one adventure I can never have.

This is too much. If he stays, he'll be consumed by it. So he does what he does best: he runs away.

--

**30****th**** July 2004. Kings College London, 1.52pm, stealing moments.**

When she woke up that morning, he'd already left for work.

She visits him at lunch, wearing a worried smile and a summer dress, happiness radiating out of her despite his earlier disappearance. She trusts him too much.

"Are you alright? You just…left, this morning. You never do that."

The Doctor tenses, forces himself to pretend to keep writing the long, complicated and boring report in front of him. John Smith was so very different. He can't imagine doing something like this every day.

"I'm fine." His answer is short and terse, and Rose frowns as she takes a couple of steps closer.

"Not getting cold feet, are you?"

"My toes are just toasty, thank you. Well, not literally. That would make walking rather uncomfortable, don't you think?"

She laughs. He reminds himself that he has no right to miss the sound. "Well, mine were cold this morning. Never woken up in that bed by myself before."

"I'm sorry," he says, his earnestness far surpassing her level of teasing.

"You are happy, yeah?" she asks, taking him aback, her face and voice, even her posture, full of concern for him, for herself, for _them_ and their future.

"Of course I am," the Doctor replies, perhaps a little _too _quickly, trying his best to look bewildered.

"You just sound a bit…"

"Rose Tyler, I'll have you know that I am happier than I have been in a very, very long time, and that's all because of you." It's truer than she knows, considering her disappearance was the source of an awful lot of his unhappiness before coming here in the first place.

There's a slight pause. He can't look at her but he knows she's smiling. "Good," comes a small voice, eventually. "Me too. But…"

There's always a but, isn't there?

"You've been having those dreams again, haven't you?" She's picked up on the fact that he's acting oddly, and she thinks this is why. Oh, if only if were that simple.

"No," he says, quite honestly, because he thinks he's just woken up into one.

Rose looks hurt and confused, a little shocked – once again – by the brevity of the Doctor's answer. She's not used to him brushing her off like this.

"Do you miss them? The dreams," she clarifies, watching him closely. He looks up sharply, locking eyes with her in slight shock because he knows that, if he were still John Smith, he really would. He hadn't realised quite how well she knew him.

"No," the Doctor repeats, again truthfully – how _can _he miss them when he's planning to return to the life they echoed in less than twenty-four hours, when the main object of them has woken up into this living, breathing woman before him?

She doesn't understand. "Then – "

He can't do this anymore, pretend that having her back doesn't matter when she was _– is – _his whole world. He pulls himself up from his desk, throwing his glasses down in the process. An utterly bewildered look crosses Rose's face – he doubts she's ever seen him look so purposeful – as he moves round the desk in two long strides. Rose is thrown off balance as he grabs her by the arm and waist, practically yanking her to him even as she stumbles in the same direction, and she thinks she knows what's coming but he's been acting so unpredictably lately that it's impossible to tell. Then, his lips descend on hers, fierce and desperate and with none of the awkward tenderness she's used to, and she promptly forgets that she was thinking anything at all.

She's laughing against his lips and he's not entirely sure he wants to know why. "Blimey. What was that for?" she asks, sounding as breathless as he feels.

"Sorry," he says, quickly, resting his forehead against hers, using every ounce of willpower he has to stop himself believing that he has her back. If he doesn't open his eyes, perhaps he can convince himself that her hair is a good few inches shorter, that she's two years older, that he never had to say goodbye to her in the first place.

She's utterly bemused by the apology – and probably rightly so – but the Doctor can't get used to the feeling that this is all right and normal for her, an _ordinary, _every-day occurrence, not when he feels like he's broken a thousand rules just to do it. He opens his eyes and manages a shrug. "I just…I've missed you." Now he's broken that barrier, it's beyond tempting to do it all over again, and he's not sure he's ever going to be able to leave. Suddenly his earlier avoidance of her seems utterly insane. Why not take these moments while he has the chance?

Rose laughs delightedly. "I love you. Very much. You know that, don't you?"

It's a rhetorical question, a perfectly-at-ease remark. Not a declaration, as he's known it from her before. No fireworks. No life-or-death, no last-chance. Just _I love you_. As simple as that, just because she can.

She used to be so free with her words. He hates that he'll be the one to suppress that.

"Yeah," he says softly. "Yeah, I do."

She bites her lip through her grin. "And…?" It's the most obvious hint in all of history, but he doesn't care.

"Rose, I – " _love you? Don't know what to say? Have to leave? Can't possibly finish this sentence?_

And then Martha walks in. Even he can't help but laugh at her timing as Rose drops her head to his shoulder and tries not to giggle, her youth and good humour ridiculously infectious.

--

**30****th**** July 2004. Kings College London, 3.32pm, and John Smith's flat, 4.05pm and onwards, trying not to watch the clock.**

"You're not actually going to go through with this, are you? _Doctor_?"

Martha drops her books and papers onto his desk with a loud, agitated _thwump. _After all his lectures of don't mess up time, be oh-so-careful and God-help-you-if-you-change-as-much-as-the-lifespan-of-a-fly, she can't believe that he's being this stupid. Truly awful as the past seven months have been, watching him fall in love with someone else and unable to do a thing about it, at least she could go on thinking she'd get him back at the end of it, that eventually he'd see sense and stop the universe imploding – or whatever else it does when someone marries their future companion in the past. At least she knew they could get away at the end of it.

But _nothing_'s changed. He's back but he's still staying, still well and truly stuck in the past if the position she found him in with Rose earlier in the afternoon is anything to go by. And now it's bigger than wanting him back or wanting to see the stars again, so much bigger than the absolute abandonment and – she'll admit it – jealously she's been feeling for months now, because if he doesn't _do _something, the whole of causality will probably rip apart.

Well, if the scare stories he told her before they came here were true, anyway.

Either way, she's not keen on sticking around to find out. The plan was to leave before they got too embroiled in anyone else's life, and that's exactly what they need to do, _now_, before _embroiled _becomes _married_.

The Doctor looks up at her wearily from his seat at the desk, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Tomorrow, Martha."

"_Tomorrow_," Martha points out, "you're supposed to be getting married." She says the word as collectedly as she can, trying to keep her head because apparently she's the only one seeing sense around here. "And we both know that that's never gonna happen. So _what_ are we going to do?"

"I meant," he clarifies, "tomorrow, we leave."

She takes a step back and frowns at him, doubting him for the first time since she started calling him _Doctor_.

"I know staying, even for a little while, is a bad idea, and I appreciate that you're so concerned with the end of the universe, but really, that doesn't happen for another three trillion years, and besides, if the human race wasn't so – " Martha's glaring at him. He sighs resignedly. "It's just one day, Martha. One day, that's all!" She doesn't look convinced, obviously betting on him extending that one day to a lifetime, abandoning her three years before her time, forcing her to live out her life as a Biology lecturer, watching he and Rose settle down from the sidelines. But he _won't. _He knows what he's doing. He's lived with nine hundred years of some temptation or other, and he always comes out all right.

"You want to see her," she begins, gently. "I understand. But why can't we leave now? What difference is _one day_ going to make?"

He laughs. "You of all people shouldn't need to ask that question. This is just something I've got to do, Martha."

She nods, finally, not liking it but accepting it all the same, allowing him these last few hours in which to play human.

Whatever Martha might fear, he's not staying, and he _is_ back. He's just spending every moment with Rose that he can with these memories, knowing how it turns out, valuing her more than John Smith ever could, because he's lost her too many times already to give up this chance.

--

And so he has one full day with her, as the Doctor, kissing her with more passion and desperation than John could ever have mustered (she notices), making love as though it's the last time (she's right), insisting he gets a glimpse of her in a dress that should have started the rest of his life with her, despite the bad luck (she's beautiful).

But now it's time to leave.

She's asleep. His hands either side of her head, then, because there's no other choice. She doesn't even get the option to shut mental doors in his face – though, he thinks by now that he knows everything there is to know about Rose Tyler. She's got nothing left to hide.

He can't remove all traces of himself, as he's so desperate to do; that's far too complex. He's ingrained too deeply in her mind. Besides, he'd have to go around changing the memory of more people than he's willing to count. And while Rose wouldn't be likely to suspect anything amiss at his being on their bed, he's not so sure he'd get the same treatment from Shireen, Mickey or Jackie. He winces at the thought.

There's even a part of him, deep down, that wants her to keep this time they had together, a part of him that doesn't want to create great voids in her mind or take the last seven months from her. That's not fair, no matter how much the memories will hurt.

So there's only one option left, really. He alters John Smith's appearance in her memory so that, when he regenerates, she won't even begin to think that he looks exactly like the man she was once going to marry. The Doctor has a strong suspicion that she might not have been so willing to stay with him had he regenerated into the ex-fiancé who dumped her at the altar.

Finally, just to make sure he won't be recognised, that he won't cause problems, he places the slightest of perception filters around himself, so that Jackie, Mickey and anyone else who he happened to meet while travelling with Rose and visiting the Powell Estate won't make the connection between him and the infamous John Smith. At least, being a Time Lord and therefore timeless, this will apply to him no matter where he is in time and space. That's about the only blessing the Doctor can imagine at the moment.

He's changed history beyond measure, and the potential consequences of that are escalating through his mind at a hundred miles per hour, each scenario worse than the last, so he can do nothing but hope this works.

"I'm sorry, Rose. I'm so sorry."

He never thought he'd have to say that to her.

--

**31****st**** July 2004. John Smith's bedroom, 2.13am, attempting desertion.**

All done – he's even written a note, for all the good it will do – but he can't go. There's something keeping him here, watching her sleep. It's safe, now – she'll see someone else if she wakes up, someone she believes is the man she's hours away from promising her life to – but he should _really _leave. It's tempting to stay here, though. _Too_ tempting.

This is why he can never go back.

The Doctor looks at Rose across the pillow, moonlight bathing the sheets from the open window and her hair splayed all about her face. She's all ruffled and content, resolutely clutching the front of his shirt as though she knows she's dreaming of a day that will never – can never – come.

She's still a child. How could he ever have considered it, even playing a thirty-something year old man? She wasn't even in nappies by the time John Smith would have entered university.

"The thing about love is that one is always at its mercy," the Doctor sighs, and kisses her forehead as lightly as he can manage. She smiles a little and tightens her grip on his shirt, but other than that, the kiss elicits no response. "One day," he tells her, quietly, hoping that some part of her, somewhere, deep down, hears this and remembers. "One day, you'll find someone who'll grab your hand and sweep you off your feet as quickly as you swept me off mine, someone who's willing to run with you to the ends of the universe." He smiles sadly, untangling himself from her and brushing her hair out of her face. "But that can't be me. Not yet."

And so he leaves, slips out in the middle of the night, taking the coward's way out so that he doesn't have to witness her tears. Leaving her behind just like he promised he never would.

When she wakes up in the morning, he'll be gone without a trace. His phone number will stop working, his bank accounts will close, and his position as a physics lecturer at the local university will be filled by someone else.

John Smith will never have existed.


End file.
